


The Detective's Awakening

by shenanygans



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/F, Female Protagonist, Femlock, Genderbending, The Awakening - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenanygans/pseuds/shenanygans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a famous ghost hunter and writer of post WWI London. After the death of a child at a boy's academy in Sussex, Sherlock is called in to investigate whether or not the boy was killed by a ghost that supposedly haunts the main house. What began as a simple mystery soon begins to challenge everything that Sherlock believes about the supernatural....and herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the Femlock Big Bang on Tumblr. Art was done by the wonderful Obrui. I hope you enjoy!

The fog over London’s streets had begun to lessen as a woman in a dark grey coat walked along the sidewalk. She was alone and bare headed, dark hair pulled back out of her face.  
Many of the streets here were still in repair after the War. Empty homes with collapsed roofs and shattered walls remained silent guardians over the woman as she came to the house on the end—the only one that was still occupied.  
Sherlock looked behind her to make sure none had followed her before quietly knocking on the door. An old woman opened the door within seconds and ushered her inside.  
The room in which Sherlock stepped into was dark and musty. Oriental rugs were layered upon the floor while heavy medieval tapestries of dragons and unicorns covered the windows. Thirteen chairs and a single large oak table in placed in the exact center were the only furniture in the room. Black candles were already lit and waiting in front of each setting place.  
The old crone, Madame Zorostra, sat waiting in front of the spirit board. An dirty mirror hung behind her on the far wall. All twelve guests took to their seats, bodies young and old shuffling in the darkened room.  
“Have you brought an item of those loved and lost?” Madame Zorostra spoke with a low, foreign accent.  
Sherlock placed a photograph on the table before her. Others placed locks of hair, jewelry, handkerchiefs, even a pair of dog tags upon the oaken table. The candles wavered slightly.  
“Then we shall begin,” the crone said, “Take the hand of the people beside you and no matter what you see, no matter what you hear, face towards me always….not all spirits are kind.”  
Hands held tight, exhales of nervous breath, and the séance was ready to start.  
“Come to us spirits. Come to us those that we have lost. Let us speak with you once more.” In the old medium’s hand, she held a planchette, and raised it above her head. “Memento mori…memento mori….” As she spoke, they others joined in until the whole room was chanting.  
The medium slowly brought down her planchette towards the board, waiting…Then one by one, the candles began to spark, the light nearly blinding. The sound of gasps and an odorous smell filled the air around them.  
“They are here.” The planchette was released and it hovered above the board. Quiet exhalations and blasphemies were spoken at the sight. The old woman waved her hands over the floating tool. “Speak to us, spirits. Tell us who is here.”  
The planchette began to move.  
C….H….R…..I…..S….T…  
“Christopher!” a woman gasped, “My son!”  
“Hush!” the medium said, “Let it speak!”  
M….O……T……H….E…..R…  
Christopher’s mother let out a sob. “Oh, my darling boy, you’re really here…”  
The table shook.  
“Tell us what it is you need, child,” the medium said, “What causes you to stay in purgatory…”  
S…C…A…R…E…D…..S…O……S…C…A…R…E…D….  
The mother continued to weep. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, dear. I’m right here. Mummy loves you so very much. I miss you…”  
“Look in the mirror. Tell us what you see.” The crone began to chant in an ancient language. The mother looked up across the table and into the mirror behind the medium. The others followed. What they saw brought chills down their spines.  
A young, pale boy stood in the corner behind the mother.  
“Christopher!” The mother started to turn her head.  
“Do not look away!” the crone hissed.  
The audience remained transfixed upon the figure as it walked slowly towards the mother’s chair. It reached out to touch her hair.  
“Christopher…Christopher….”  
Screams erupted as a dark figure grabbed the pale boy.  
“Git offa me! Git off!”  
“Inspector! Open the curtains! The door! Don’t let that man escape!”  
With one strong arm wrapped around the screaming urchin, Sherlock blew a whistle and the charade was over.  
As the tapestries were pulled away, the old crone was discovered to be a middle aged man with heavy make-up and a veil.  
“Let’s see,” Sherlock said, “Cross-dressing—check. Magnetized Ouija board—check. A Romani nursery rhyme pretending to be a spell—check! Oh, and those candles, obviously the wick was dipped in magnesium and covered with a layer of wax. All that was needed was timing and a bit of ambience and presto change-o! You have a fake séance!”  
She released the boy to the Inspector.  
“Ms. Holmes, I—“  
“Holmes!” the old crone-man cried as he was handcuffed, “I should have known. You should be ashamed!”  
“Ashamed for exposing you for what you are?” Sherlock laughed, “You’re a charlatan that takes these people’s money and gives them only lies. And it’s a poor performance at that. If anyone ought to be ashamed, it is you sir.” She turned and left the police to clean up the rest of this mess. Her job was over.  
The crisp morning air was far too suffocating for Sherlock’s tastes. She pulled out a silver case from her grey coat and lit up a cigarette. The initials V.T. glinted in the light before it was slipped back into her pocket. After a few heavy drags of the thick tobacco smoke, Sherlock was feeling like she could breathe again. 

Joan Watson looked down at the book in her hands and wondered if this trip was going to prove to be simply a waste of her time. Still, the boys needed her and if Joan could provide them with even a modicum of solace, she would do so.  
A Study of the Supernatural by Sherlock Holmes. Joan scoffed. 

Mycroft Holmes sat by a warm fire, sipping from a glass of brandy. He heard the familiar footsteps, the tired refusal for assistance by the maid, and the sound of his den door being flung open.  
“I’m home,” Sherlock said, flopping herself in the opposite chair. A cup of tea had been steadily cooling, awaiting her arrival.  
“I see you walked home rather than take a cab,” Mycroft mused, “It’s far too cold for one to be travelling home in such a fashion; not to mention the dangers.”  
Sherlock merely rolled her eyes. “Your concern for my wellbeing is warmth enough, dear brother.” She kicked off her shoes and spent several moments staring into the fire.  
Mycroft watched as both the cold London air and the cold mask his sister wore slowly dissipated. What was left was only emptiness.  
He sighed. “It does not fail my attention on why you do this to yourself, Sherlock…it doesn’t have to be this way. There are other avenues of employment that are well suited for your intellect. You do not have to keep chasing ghosts.”  
Silence was the only response he received for some time. When Mycroft had finally given up on the conversation, content to give only quiet companionship to his sister, it was then that Sherlock spoke.  
“And what do you know of it?” Sherlock asked coldly, her eyes moving from the flames to her brother, reflecting the fiery heat upon him. “What do you know of it? Were you in the trenches when the world went to chaos? Were you there as thousands of innocent men were slaughtered over a few feet of land? No. You were here, cowering away just like when our family needed you in India.”  
The reference struck Mycroft quiet. The only physical reaction that appeared was a slight softening of the eyes. Almost like pity…  
Sherlock stood, about to say something more when a maid knocked upon the threshold. “Miss Holmes? There is someone at the door who wishes to see you.”  
She huffed. “Very well.” Sherlock walked out to the hallway and saw a blonde woman in an old fashioned dress waiting. In the woman’s hands held a copy of her book.  
Sherlock sighed and pulled out a pen. She took the book from her hands and opened it up. “And your name is?”  
“Joan Watson. I’m from—“  
“Thank you very much for your support but I don’t receive fans at my home address.” Sherlock signed the book and handed it back to her. “Have a good day.” She turned to close the door.  
“I’m not a fan of your book, Miss Holmes,” Joan said sharply, putting a firm hand on the door, “I’m here for your help.”  
She stopped, a bit taken aback. Mycroft stepped up behind her. “We’re very sorry but my sister here is done with taking cases.  
Sherlock quickly collected herself. “Depends on the case of course. Will you please come inside Miss Watson? I need a moment to change into something more comfortable.” She regretted it immediately and quickly turned to head upstairs. And all to spite her brother…

The older man looked quite annoyed as he reluctantly let Joan inside of their home. This must be the brother, she told herself. There weren't any fond mentions of the man in Sherlock’s book.  
Joan was led into a large study. While the front of the study was furnished with a Victorian settee, wide coffee table, and more modern chair, the back was bare except for piles upon piles of letters stacked up in neat little piles. Joan was drawn to them and knelt down to pick one up. What she found was a horrid letter describing of all the ways the author wished Miss Holmes to suffer, including a very detailed vivisection.  
When the door opened again, she quickly put the letter back. Unfortunately, Sherlock had already seen.  
“Love letters from some of my more conservative fans,” she said sardonically as she crossed the room. Sherlock wore a grey woman’s suit and a men’s tie loosely wrapped around her neck. Joan found the style quite odd compared to her plain, almost Edwardian, blue dress. Even her hair was put up in the old fashion bun unlike the other woman. Sherlock wore her hair short, letting the soft curls rest along her jawline.  
Joan licked her lips. “It’s quite rude in my opinion,” she said quickly, “Even if one doesn’t care for your more scientific approach to spiritualism, it hardly warrants one’s skin to be flayed from their body.”  
Sherlock laughed. “Any good author knows a sign of success is when they start getting death threats.” She propped herself upon the settee, sitting on the top and letting her feet rest upon the cushions. Joan mourned for the fabric.  
“Though I have a feeling you don’t quite like my work,” Sherlock continued, “Yet you’re still here. Why?”  
Joan took a deep breath and returned to the other side of the room, taking a seat in the leather chair. “I’m here on the behalf of the school in which I work at. Have you heard of the recent events at Reichenbach Academy for Young Boys in Sussex?”  
Sherlock shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve been too busy these past few days to read the news.”  
“Two weeks ago, one of our students died. The police say it was an accident.” She paused. “The students are saying that he was killed by a ghost child.” Opening up her medical bag, Joan pulled out several photographs. “The house used to belong to a rather rich and important family before it was converted into a school. Other than that, we know nothing of any events that might have occurred in the house’s history.”  
Sherlock took notes. “And so you believe there is a possibility that a child was murdered in that home, thus creating your alleged haunting.”  
Joan frowned. “Yes. We also have sightings from the boys as well as these photographs, taken every year.”  
Sherlock moved down from her perch to examine the photographs. Boys in school uniforms were lined up in front of a large estate. Even in the black and white photo, she could see the building painted as a soft cream and the door made out of strong, old oak.  
Joan pointed towards a rather ethereal image of one of the boys standing in the back row. The movement pulled Sherlock from her thoughts and she sighed.  
“This is a common trick. As the panoramic camera moves from one side to the other, a boy runs across the back, thus his picture coming in twice, the second time blurred.”  
“That’s what we thought as well,” Joan said, “But it happens every year.” She showed Sherlock the same image of a boy popping up in the back row for a span of ten years. “This picture was taken two months before the death of our student.”  
Sherlock looked at the back row, expecting the blurred image of a boy, only to find none. As she explored the picture, she caught a grotesque face peering out through one of the upper windows.  
“All of the boys were accounted for in this photo,” Joan added firmly, “What I don’t understand is how in less than a minute, a boy could run from his position outside to look out from an upper story window without being noticed.”  
Sherlock stood. “That is interesting indeed, but not enough to warrant my involvement. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”  
Joan stood with her. “Miss Holmes, these boys need you. The child that died—“  
“Most likely died from an accident like the police stated,” Sherlock said, “Children are very imaginative. The idea of a ghost is more comforting than the cruel reality of their mortality.”  
Joan stiffened. She reached down to pick up the book and opened it to a marked page. “I cannot remember much of my childhood, nor of my parent’s death. All that I can remember is an ever encompassing fear that took my reason from me and resulted in several years as a patient in Bedlam.”  
Sherlock swallowed thickly. “How dare you.”  
“Fear,” Joan said, “That is what you yourself state as the enemy of logic and scientific understanding of the unknown. These boys are not afraid of bumps in the night. They are terrified for their very lives! I do not care whether or not this ghost is real, Miss Holmes. What I want is there to be peace in the hearts of these young boys after the horrible death of one of their own!”  
She closed the book with a resounding clap and grabbed her bag. The photographs were left on Sherlock’s coffee table.  
“I will be staying the night at the Greentown Hotel and heading back to Sussex in the morning. If you change your mind, you may contact me there.” Joan let herself out of the house, the sound of the door slamming shut rang in Sherlock’s ear.  
A few minutes later, Mycroft entered the room. “I see that our visitor didn’t like what you had to say. Nonetheless, it was for the best. You need to—“  
“I’m going,” Sherlock said before leaving to pack her bags. That was all she would say on the matter.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock arrived at the train station before Joan, managing the handling of her bags by a group of young workers. “Be careful with that! That is expensive scientific equipment in there!”   
Joan couldn’t help but smile at the sight. The woman certainly did have an authoritative personality, even if she had never been on a battlefield. Joan kept her bag with her as they boarded the train, thankfully grabbing an empty compartment for the two of them.  
“The parents of the students will be coming to pick up them up in three days,” Joan explained, “I am hoping that won’t hinder your investigation. At least you’ll have the house to yourself after that.”   
“That will actually prove to be a disadvantage.” Sherlock stared out the window as the urban landscape turned into lush fields as the train made its way through the countryside. “It’s best to keep the environment the same as it was during the paranormal incidents. Then you’ll be more likely to experience another incident…or catch a fraud at work.”   
“If this was a prank done by a group of school boys, the other students wouldn’t be so terrified.”  
Sherlock shrugged. “Sometimes children can be very clever when they’re trying to hide…”

A car was already waiting for them at the station. A well-built man of about thirty with a scar across his cheek came to collect their bags.   
“Good to see you back, Mrs. Watson.” 

Joan gave him a curt nod. “Please be careful with Miss Holmes’s equipment, Sebastian. It’s expensive.” She then got into the back of the car with Sherlock.  
“You don’t seem to like him,” Sherlock observed, “I thought a woman like you would be more respectful to fellow veterans.”   
Joan twisted her lip. “There are many types of soldiers, Miss Holmes. Some serve under duty and loyalty to their country while others for personal gain and glory. Then there are those who enter service simply because they find sport in war. They do not deserve the same respect.”  
The trunk slammed shut, causing Sherlock to jump. She looked back to see Sebastian leering over her. He winked. She turned her head back to the front and straightened herself. Yes, some men did not deserve the same kind of respect—or any.  
The school had its own private drive, off of the main village road about three miles from the station. Thick woods sheltered the grounds from the outside world, tall dark pines that have remained since the Romans came to conquer this ancient land. Sherlock felt oddly at peace here.   
As the car left the woods behind, Sherlock caught her first glimpse of the school boys. They ran across the open grounds and alongside the road as part of their physical education. Even their athletic wear had a uniform appearance. Sebastian honked his horn and accelerated, scaring a few stragglers into sprinting for their lives. Joan did not seem pleased with this behavior.  
Finally, they came to the school house itself. The building loomed over Sherlock as she stepped out of the car. If ghosts existed, this would be a place for them to live. As she stepped out, a boy still in his class uniform stood by the door, watching them. She smiled and nodded towards him. His eyes widened and he quickly ran off, nearly running into the old matron. Sherlock chuckled.  
“Mrs. Hudson,” Joan said, walking towards the matron, “may I introduce to you Miss Sherlock Holmes. Miss Holmes, this is Mrs. Hudson. She is in charge of the household duties here.”  
Mrs. Hudson hardly glanced at Joan. Her gaze was fixed upon Sherlock as if she were an angel. “Miss Holmes, it is so good to finally meet you. I’ve read your book. I keep it right next to my bible.”  
Sherlock smiled and extended her hand politely. She was used to this sort of fanatic awe in people. “It’s a pleasure. Thank you for having me here. I’m sure you take good care of the boys here.”   
Two men soon came out to greet them as well. The older man introduced himself as the headmaster, Mr. Jenkins. The other man was the mathematics teacher by the name of Professor Moriarty. His dark eyes looked over Sherlock with skepticism.   
“My apologies that Mrs. Watson here dragged you all the way out here,” he said, “I would say that out here you are just chasing ghosts, but in your profession, that saying takes on a more literal meaning.”   
“Ah yes, but alas, I’ve never found one.” Sherlock shook his hand in a firm grip, “I’ve become quite good at finding frauds though. Maybe today I’ll be lucky and catch the real thing.”   
Moriarty gave a short laugh which quickly turned into a thick cough. “I would help you with your bags, but I have other duties to attend to. If you will excuse me, I must go gather the boys from their exercise.” He walked past the party down the road, giving a shout for the boys to hurry themselves up or they would get the ruler. Sebastian was left alone in taking Sherlock’s equipment up to an empty work room while the headmaster gave her a tour of the establishment.   
While the house was kept clean and in good order, much of the grandeur seen in the earlier photos had faded over time. The décor was simple and academic. The most extravagant items came from a collection of portraits in the main hallway. Sherlock found herself staring up at a painting of a tiger in a jungle, fangs bared as it attacked a hunter.   
“Quite gruesome,” the headmaster said, breaking Sherlock away from her thoughts, “It came with the house, but the boys seem to love it; that and the beheading of John the Baptist.” He gestured to the other wall where a painting of a man being decapitated by two women.  
“Actually, that is Judith killing the Assyrian general, Holofernes,” Sherlock explained, “She snuck into the enemy camp, seduced the general, and killed him in his sleep. Now those were the days…” Sherlock smirked.   
“Ah, yes, of courses.” The headmaster colored in embarrassment.   
Sherlock was given a full tour of the house. The first floor held the library, kitchen, and dining hall. The second floor held the classrooms and headmaster’s office. The boys’ living quarters were on the third floor and baths. And on the fourth floor was where the faculty slept, along with a few spare attic rooms above. It was in the dormitory that the boys had first seen the ghost.   
Finally, they came down to the garden entrance of the house where the boy’s body had been found.   
“Poor Harold,” Mrs. Hudson said, “He had a hard enough time as it was. He didn’t have any friends. The boys teased him, calling have Wheezy Harry because of his asthma.”  
Sherlock knelt down and examined the ground. Catching the light, something glimmered in one of the cracks. She pulled it out with her fingers, feeling cracked glass with a greasy coating. Upon further examination, it turned out to be a glass eye.  
“Did Harold have a stuffed toy?” she asked.  
“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson said, pulling a small bear out of her pocket, “This was with him when he died. I thought you might want it.”  
Sherlock looked down at the one eyed bear. This was his only friend and had been with him in the end. She pressed the bear against her nose, smelling dirt and the faint scent of eucalyptus.   
“Miss Holmes,” the Headmaster said after a moment of silence, “How about we get out of the cold and discuss the case further in my office. We can have tea brought up to us to soothe our spirits.”  
“Actually, headmaster, I was wondering if I may talk to the boys and get their stories directly,” Sherlock replied, standing up. “I would like to get started as soon as possible if that is alright with you.”   
“Very well. They will be in the middle of Moriarty’s maths lecture. I’m sure the boys will appreciate the light reprieve. This way…”   
As they walked down the hallway to the classroom, Sherlock heard a loud crack followed by a young boy’s shout of pain. Moriarty seemed to enjoy using his cane on his pupils.   
“Now, let’s go over the list again.” The sound of cane on flesh turned to the crack of cane against wood. Each student stood up and recited their multiplication tables. Four multiplied by one is four; four multiplied by two is eight; four multiplied by three is twelve.  
“Excuse us, Professor,” the Headmaster spoke as the second to last boy in the row finished his set. “Miss Holmes wishes to speak to the students.”   
Sherlock caught the eye of the boy in the far back. He had light auburn hair and wide, round eyes. It was the boy from the entrance. She smiled again at him. It wasn’t like she hated children. In fact, she preferred them to adults whom she found to be the real idiots even if they had more education than the younger generation.   
“Miss Holmes?” She turned her head, “Ah yes, thank you Headmaster.” Stepping out in front of class, she introduced herself. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. You may be wondering why I’m here, so I’ve decided to simply tell you rather than let your imaginations run wild: I’m here to catch your ghost.”  
Many of the boys’ eyes widened and they began murmuring to each other. Moriarty shouted at them to be quiet and listen to the lady.  
“It’s alright,” she said, putting a hand up to stop him from attacking one of the students again, “I want them to speak plainly to me.” Sherlock looked over them. “One of your own has died. I know that must frighten you, but I must have the truth. Has anyone actually seen this ghost?”   
The room went silently, boys eyeing each other carefully. Finally, one with dark hair parted down the middle raised his hand.  
“Yes, Mr. Anderson,” The Headmaster said, “please stand and tell the lady what you saw.”   
“It was horrible, miss,” the boy said, “I saw it on the upper corridor. Its face was pale and twisted. Blurred…like a photograph. It looked like it was in pain. The room went as cold as ice, so cold….please kill it, Miss.”  
“Yes, please kill it, Miss!” another said.  
“Kill it, Miss! Please kill it!”   
The whole class began to say the same thing, fear hidden deep in the eyes of the boys. Sherlock saw the one in the back pale and look down. She simply raised a hand and they stopped.  
“I will do my best. Tonight, I will have your dormitory cleared and set up my equipment. Now Mrs. Hudson has agreed to let you sleep down in the dining hall for the night. I must ask that you all listen to what the Matron says and try not to get in the way of my work. Understood?”  
The boys nodded. “Yes, Miss.”   
Hopefully, this would ease their fear until this mystery was sorted out.


	3. Chapter 3

“Alright, put that down right by the wall. You, put the camera down on the X I marked on the floor. Yes. Good….No, the other X.” Sherlock had Sebastian and a few maids help her with clearing the dormitory floor and getting the heavier equipment in place. Once the barometer and cameras were in place, she shooed them away to finish up. The light would be fading fast and there were still the hallways to be worked on as well.  
Joan came up to check on Sherlock. She found the woman kneeling on the floor, carefully measuring a powder into a crucible. Sherlock’s expression was of serious concentration, drowning everything else out from her own mind. For such a skeptical and austere woman, there was an underlining passion that could just rarely be seen. Joan was lucky to have caught a glimpse of it.  
Joan looked down at her feet. A thin, clear string had been tied to their end of the doorframe, a little bell hung from the side. In front of it was a newspaper with a finer, white powder dusted all over. “What is this for?” she asked, nodding down at the paper.  
Sherlock’s head shot up. “That’s for footprints.”  
“I didn’t know ghosts could leave footprints behind,” she sardonically.  
“They don’t.” Sherlock smirked, “But people pretending to be ghosts do.” She stood and attached another string from her concoction to the camera.  
“And what is this you’re setting up?” Joan couldn’t help but be curious over this woman’s work.  
“That down there is magnesium phosphate. If the room falls down to a particular temperature, measured by this barometer,” she said, gesturing to the device, “Then it will be sparked, giving enough light for the camera to take a picture.”  
Sherlock walked up to four posts with metal arrows. “These follow electromagnetic emissions, pointing us towards any wandering spirits and that gramophone there will hopefully pick up any sounds made by the spirit if it decides it wants to speak.”  
She returned to the center of the room. “Impressed yet?”  
Joan laughed. “It does seem to be a quite professional and scientific approach. I will give you that….I hope we do find it.”  
Sherlock grinned. “Great. Now help me set up a dark room.”

Night fell and the moon rose high into the sky, giving scant illumination to the world below. Students and faculty were sent to bed, leaving Sherlock to her work. Shadows danced along the dormitory’s walls. Moonlight streamed in through the windows. The fire had been left unlit to keep the temperature constant for the equipment.  
Sherlock had checked her equipment and checked again. Now came the hard part—the waiting.  
She sat motionless in a small chair beside the fire place, eyes wandering from the cameras to the electromagnetic sensors. Everything was still and quiet.  
After about a half hour, a creaking sound came from above, travelling to the room behind her. Sherlock knew the sound well: pipes. Someone had decided to have a late night bath. She thought nothing of it until she slowly became aware of a warm draft and the un-muffled sound of water splashing. To her left was a small hole in the wall. Sherlock chewed on her lip. The boys must have carved it out, she thought, to see the maids taking their baths. It was more of a simple curiosity for the human body than a sick perversion in Sherlock’s opinion.  
Just plain ol’ curiosity….Sherlock gave into temptation after five minutes and knelt down to peer into the hole. To her surprise, it was Joan.  
Long, straw colored hair hung damp over round breasts. Her body had a thin layer of soft fat over firmer muscles beneath. Sometime in her life, Joan had labored hard, earning a stout and worn body unfit for upper class society. She was standing up in the bath, tending to her leg. Sherlock watched as the woman used a straight razor to cut into an ugly scar. Joan bit back a moan of pain as she cut in deeper.  
Sherlock could feel her heart racing. What was she doing to herself? Sherlock was no stranger towards self-destruction but even this seemed out of order. Somewhere in that plain, strong woman lies a wound of the soul that had yet to heal. Or perhaps, this was her penance for a wound that she had given another.  
A cold wind brushed across the back of Sherlock’s neck. She gasped and turned around. The light from the bathroom had taken away her night vision. Sherlock reached down beside her and picked up an electric torch, turning it on.  
The electromagnetic arrows began to spin and the temperature continued to drop. Sherlock stepped forward, her breath turning to vapor as she let it out. As soon as she was in the center of the machine, they all stopped spinning and pointed right at her.  
Sherlock stopped and waited. After another five heartbeats, she began to hear muffled voices drifting on the wind. A man and a woman’s voice; they sounded like they were arguing…  
A crash came from behind and Sherlock managed to catch a glimpse of a small figure with a white, wispy face race out from a shadowy corner before the magnesium sparked, creating a great flash. Bells went off down the hallways as the giggled and ran.  
Sherlock ran after it, careful not to trip over the wires as her quarry ran for the staircase. She held the torch overhead as she made her way, stopping to look over the bannister. A boy in a uniform was walking on the ground floor, his back turned to her. As she made to follow him, a door slammed farther down the hallway. She decided to follow that noise instead, taking her to a storage room at the end of the hall.  
Slowly, she opened the door and peered inside. Nothing. A few brooms lay against the wall and a shelf held an assortment of sheets and blankets. Sherlock stepped inside, feeling along the walls for an opening of any sort, until she found something fallen to the ground. It was a small cloth bag; nearly see through in its material. Sherlock put her hand in it and held it to the light.  
Heavier, adult footsteps came down the hall.  
“Sherlock?” Joan whispered, “I heard bells…”  
“We’re done for tonight,” Sherlock said, handing her the bag, “In the morning, I want to see the boys again.”  
Joan looked at the bag and then at the ground. A small pair of footprints faded out in front of the storage room, coming from the dormitory.  
There would be no more excitement for tonight.

When morning came, each boy was lined up outside of the kitchen and was told to remove their socks. Sherlock held a metal canister in her hand, spraying a solution over their feet as the Headmaster, Joan, Mrs. Hudson and Professor Moriarty looked on.  
“What is the point of all of this,” Moriarty asked, covering his mouth as another round of coughing came. “We have classes to get to.”  
“Something ran through the hallways last night, and stepped into a little powder I had left on the floor.” Sherlock explained, “This chemical I’m using, while harmless to the skin, will react with any traces of that powder left on the soles of these little feet.”  
They got down to the last three boys until the heels of a dark haired boy turned blue.  
“Here’s our little rat.”  
“Mr. Anderson!” The Headmaster gasped, “What do you have to say for yourself?”  
Sherlock smirked. “He was trying to scare me. I’m sure the other boys are in on the trick as well…but Harold wasn’t, was he? You tried to scare him too.”  
Anderson paled. “It was only a little prank,” he said quickly, “We never even touched him, I swear! In fact, we didn’t even try to scare him the night he died. Honest!”  
“And what of the other boy last night? Did he go out on his own to frighten Harold?”  
“What other boy? It was just me!”  
Moriarty came forward to slap the boy. “Don’t lie you whelp!”  
Sherlock caught a whiff of cologne and eucalyptus. She stopped.  
“We didn’t hurt him that night!” Anderson cried. Moriarty turned him over and raised his cane to strike. “No! Please, sir! No!”  
“Stop it!” Sherlock snapped, turning on the professor, “You’ve done enough damage already, don’t you think?”  
The room went silent. Mrs. Hudson took the opportunity to spirit the young boys out of the room and away from Moriarty’s wrath.  
The professor turned to face her. “What do you mean, Miss Holmes?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.  
“What I mean,” Sherlock said, “Is that you are the one responsible for the death of young Harold. These boys are innocent of that offence.”  
Joan watched the exchange, seeing the cold determination on Sherlock’s face and the utter surprise in Moriarty’s.  
“Miss Holmes, I demand an explanation for this accusation,” The Headmaster said, “Professor Moriarty is one of our finest faculty members here. He would never harm a child like that.”  
“Unless to punish the boy,” Sherlock replied. She walked over to the glass door, leading to the patio where the body had been found. Bending over, she breathed against the glass revealing a set of fingerprints. “There is a faint scent of eucalyptus on this door as well as on the stuffed bear that the boy was holding when he came down here. It’s the same eucalyptus scent that comes from your medicinal balm to help clear your chest, Professor. He came to you, didn’t he? Probably to tell you he saw the ghost again…that he was scared.”  
Sherlock turned back to the group. “You have a short temper and a quick hand to punish disobedient children. A young boy wandering the school after hours—he had to be taught a lesson. So you locked him outside in the cold and the dark to die.”  
Moriarty glared at her. “That boy needed to toughen up. I didn’t even touch him and he was whimpering and crying! A night in the cold would have done him well. How was I to know he would die?”

“Any other boy may have been able to survive, but he was asthmatic. He was already scared witless and all you did was made his state worse. That boy suffocated out there because of you!”  
Her logic was sound. Joan felt ill. The ghost hadn’t killed the boy, Moriarty had.  
“She’s right,” Joan said, “The fear and panic would have caused a full blown asthmatic attack that. It could have been averted if he had been brought to me for treatment.”  
The Headmaster had heard enough. “Tomorrow, the parents will be on their way to pick up the boys. Professor, I am sorry to say that you must leave the premises immediately. You are no longer welcome here. I suggest you find yourself a capable lawyer to deal with any charges the courts will place upon you for this horrible negligence.”  
Moriarty’s murderous glare turned on the Headmaster and Joan. They had all listened to this hussy and ruined him! Without a word, he stormed out of the room to pack his bags. One day, he would have his revenge.  
Sherlock took a deep breath. “Now,” she said after collecting herself, “I believe my work is done. I’ll begin to pack up my belongings.”  
Joan walked up to her. “Thank you for all that you’ve done. Harold’s spirit can be at rest.”  
“No, Miss Watson. Harold’s spirit is not at rest because it does not exist. Once we die….there is nothing.” She put on her coat and headed outside to the garden. She needed the fresh air desperately.  
Joan sighed and went to tell Mrs. Hudson the news. As she headed upstairs, she spotted Moriarty talking quietly to Sebastian. She thought she heard him say, “Take care of her,” before their voices became too muffled to hear. She frowned. If they meant Miss Holmes harm, she would be there to stop it.

Sherlock found a path and followed it, not caring where it led her. The emptiness was coming in fast, more powerful than ever. It had been wrong to come here, she realized. There was no ghost to find or vanquish, just another prank designed by children. Yet the worst came from the adults. Moriarty’s cruelty had killed that poor boy. He was right. Children were weak and defenseless against those who are meant to protect them.  
When she came to herself, she found herself the edge of a dock, overlooking the lake. She had nearly stepped right off into the water.  
God she needed a cigarette.  
Sherlock fished out her silver case from her pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Balancing it with a lighter in her hands, she managed to light her cigarette, pulling in a tendril of sweet smoke. She sighed, the smoke being pushed back out through her lips, and stared up at the grey sky.  
There was no point to any of this anymore. Her brother had been right to say it wasn’t doing her any good. Perhaps when she went back, she’d ask him to get her situated in a laboratory and do something with the living for a change. She was done chasing ghosts.  
A gunshot rang through her ears. Sherlock gasped, dropping her cigarette case into the water.  
“No!” She knelt down, reaching into the lake in hopes of grabbing it before it sunk to the bottom. The sleeves of her coat felt heavy as they sucked up the lake water. Her eyes scanned the murky depths for any sign of silver. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of a drowning boy reaching back up at her. It sank back down before she could even grab his hand to save him.  
Sherlock stared down into the water. This wasn’t right. There were no boys out here. They were safe back at the house. They were safe….There was nothing here.  
There was nothing here for her.  
Slowly, she felt the world lose its balance and a damp, cold darkness wrapped around her. Sherlock closed her eyes and let it take her.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan had been walking down the path. She needed to speak to Sherlock, tell her what she had heard. The woman might be in danger.  
As she turned the corner, Joan had a brief glimpse of Sherlock before the other woman fell into the water like a rock.  
“Sherlock!” Without a moment to lose, Joan ran off the dock and into the water. Cold wrapped around her and stole her breath. She could hardly see a thing. Frantically, she swam down further until she felt damp cloth at her fingertips. She grabbed it, feeling the outline of an arm, and pulled it up towards her. Sherlock’s head brushed against her chest. Joan swam back to the surface, struggling to keep her patient up with her.  
Whatever spell that Sherlock had been under broke as she was dragged back to the surface. She gasped for air, lungs pushing out water.  
“I’ve got you,” she heard someone say, “I’ve got you!”  
Sherlock felt her body being carried through the water and brought to shore. She felt so cold…  
Her coat was being torn off, the same voice calling out for help. Sherlock opened her eyes to see her savior.  
“J-Joan,” she gasped, coughing up another lungful of water.  
“You bloody idiot!” Joan growled, “What were you thinking!?”  
Hands pressed against her neck and the back of her head. Sherlock wondered if this woman was going to throttle her. Instead, they took her pulse. She closed her eyes, the feeling of those hands as she drifted off into unconsciousness.

When Sherlock had awakened, the boys had been sent home along with most of the faculty. Joan was attending to her. “Feel any better?”  
“Nothing a warm fire and some soup can’t solve.” She tried to give her comforting smile. “I fell trying to pull my cigarette case out of the water. I’m fine, really.”  
“It didn’t look like that,” Joan said testily, “It wasn’t even yours is it? Someone else’s initials were on it. For someone who doesn’t believe in the afterlife, you sure are quick to join it.” She regretted saying it immediately. “We’ve all lost people in the war. I’m sorry…”  
Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Help me to the kitchens. The Matron can tend to me there. I’m sure you have other duties to attend to.”  
Joan nodded. She deserved that. She wrapped an arm around Sherlock, finding her to be much lighter now without her wool coat, and took her down to the kitchens. Mrs. Hudson was there, cutting carrots for a stew.  
“I’ll go run a hot bath for you,” Joan said once Sherlock was seated by the fire, giving a quick look towards Mrs. Hudson to make sure the woman wouldn’t leave her unattended.  
Sherlock sighed and let her body absorb the heat coming out of the fireplace. When turned her head, she found a boy sitting on a stool by the doorway. It was the same boy she had seen the previous morning and in the back of the class.  
She frowned. “Shouldn’t you be home with your parents for holiday?”  
He seemed a bit surprise that she was talking to him.  
“….My parents travel a lot,” the boy said quietly, looking down.  
“My parents used to travel a lot too,” Sherlock replied, “Though they usually took me along. I was too much trouble to leave behind in a school.” She winked, getting a small laugh out of the boy.  
“What is your name?”  
“My name is Henry, Miss Holmes.”  
She smiled. “You can call me Sherlock.”  
“Miss Sherlock…where are your parents?”  
Sherlock’s expression fell. “They died when I was a child. We were in India, you see. A tiger came into our camp and attacked me. See?” She pulled down the side of her robe, exposing three thin scars on her right shoulder. “My parents tried to save me…but they didn’t make it. A village took me in and cared for me. They called me their Mowa-Zee, their white doll.”  
Henry looked at her mournfully. “I’m sorry…Is there anything else you remember?”  
“Now that’s enough quite enough, Henry,” Mrs. Hudson said sharply. Sherlock had forgotten she was there. “You can go upstairs to play and leave Miss Sherlock to rest. You can play with her later.”  
“I wouldn’t mind that,” Sherlock cut in. She rather liked Henry. None of the other boys seemed to play with him. Perhaps she could give him a bit of company before she left this place.  
Henry looked back at her, his large ears turning slightly red. “Okay.” He ran out of the room.  
“He’s a sensitive boy, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said, frowning, “You shouldn’t tease him like that.”  
“Pardon? I wasn’t. Everything I said was true. If you’ve read my book you would know that.”  
Mrs. Hudson straightened. She turned away from her. “I think we’re going to need more potatoes. Excuse me.”  
Sherlock frowned. What was bothering that old woman? She sat back and dozed off until the sound of murmuring voices started up again. Mrs. Hudson better not be chewing out Henry for talking to her. No. The woman’s voice was more shrill, the other’s more masculine and angry.  
“Sherlock?”  
She started, opening her eyes to see Joan looking down at her. “Yes, Joan?”  
“Your bath is ready.”  
Sherlock let Joan take her to the bath, but the woman left before she disrobed. She sank down into the warm water and tried to relax. Perhaps Joan was right. Maybe she did have a death wish, but her pulse had felt so alive beneath Joan’s steady fingers.  
She closed her eyes and thought of those fingers, slightly callused from years of hard use. Sherlock remembered how beautiful Joan had been the other night in this very bath. Joan was no great beauty. One would not find her portrait on the wall, lounging with satyrs and cherubs that every painter seemed to want to incorporate into their paintings. Yet, in her plainness was her beauty. The firm set line of her mouth, the steady gaze, unflinching under pressure. Sherlock thought back to those hands, her own slowly drifting down below the water to touch herself.  
A low, quiet moan escaped her lips as she filled herself with soft pleasure between her legs. When Sherlock heard a floorboard quietly creak, she opened her eyes. She was alone in the bath yet the sound was close. Her eyes followed the wall, finding a small hole between two showers. Sherlock looked straight at is as she rose, exposing her body to the cool air.  
“Don’t go,” she said softly, taking a deep breath, “I know you’re there…”  
Sherlock wrapped a towel around her, but thought otherwise and let it fall. Slowly, she made her way to the hole. It could only be one person. It had to be here. She needed it to be her. “It’s alright. I’m not afraid.” Sherlock knelt down to peer into the hole, Joan’s name on her lips.  
Instead, a blurred, pale face looked back at her and quickly moved away. She gasped and fell back.  
That wasn’t a boy in a mask. At this distance, she would have been able to see his face clearly through the sack. Sherlock scrambled back up and grabbed her gown. She raced barefoot into the hallway. She could hear giggling, taking her upstairs as she followed it into an attic room.  
The room was empty except for a single dollhouse made in the image of the main building. Sherlock stopped in the doorway, just the sight of it making her heart race. Something about this innocuous children’s toy felt wrong. It called to her.  
A thin layer of dust covered the floor. No one had been in this room for some time, most likely for cleaning, Sherlock thought. She looked through the tiny windows to see what was inside. What she saw made her blood ran cold.  
It was her. A small doll with dark hair and a grey coat stood in the main hallway with dolls representing the matron, Joan, and the Headmaster. Sherlock’s eyes wandered to the other rooms, finding her again in the classroom, talking to students sitting in tiny wooden desks. On the next floor, she found herself kneeling in front of wall, looking into the next door bathroom as a bare, blonde doll was bent over, and cutting into its own leg. Finally, Sherlock looked up the fourth floor and saw a doll, dressed in a maroon robe kneeling before a dollhouse.  
She looked down at her robe, the same dark color. How could it have known what she was wearing now? How did it know she would be here? Sherlock looked back up to find the room had changed.  
Now, the small figure of a boy stood behind her doll.  
Sherlock screamed and whipped around, her damp hair flying about her head. Behind her, there was nothing.  
She ran from the room, the door slamming shut behind her.  
“Joan! Joan! Where are you?” Sherlock called for her as she raced down the stairwell.  
“Sherlock? Dear God, what are you doing?” Joan was on the bottom floor, staring up at the half naked woman, a faint tint of pink on her cheeks.  
“We need to set up my equipment again,” Sherlock called down, half her body over the bannister, “My work here isn’t finished!”  
Joan raced up the stairs to meet her. “What the bloody hell are you talking about? You are in no state to work.” She grabbed the woman, putting a hand to her forehead.  
“I don’t have a fever, Joan,” she growled, pulling away. “I saw it. I saw the ghost. It’s real.”  
Joan’s eyes widened. “You aren’t well. You need to rest.”  
“I don’t need to rest, I need to work. I just,” she looked back down the hall, “It’s a feeling in my gut that there is more to this house than I previous thought. You brought me here for a reason and I’m going to finish what I started.”  
“Sherlock, you did finish what you started. You found out what happened to that boy, you proved that the other students were simply scaring him.”  
“And what of the other boy?”  
“What other boy?” Joan frowned.  
“Anderson said that it was only him last night running about the halls,” Sherlock explained, “but I saw two boys out there. He was telling the truth. The other boy had to be the same spirit in the photos.”  
“You said those were faked.”  
“I was wrong.” Sherlock tore away and went to the guest room to change into her clothes. Joan just stood in the hallway, dumbfounded. That woman just admitted that she had been wrong…  
Joan caught her again when she returned downstairs, following her down the hall to where her equipment was set up. “Sherlock, first you claim to only believe in scientific evidence and now, after a near fatal drowning, you want to start again based on a feeling?”  
Sherlock shook her head. “Intuition comes from insights made before they become conscious thoughts within one’s own mind. I don’t know why I know I’m right at this moment, but when this is over, I will know.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Hudson and Henry watching them argue.  
“This isn’t intuition, Sherlock. This is shock! You are not your rational self at this moment. Anyone can plainly see that. If you just—“  
“Miss Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice cut through the argument, “The machine…”  
Sherlock turned around. The arrows of the electromagnetic machine began moving again. This time, they pointed towards the nearby wall.  
She walked towards the wall and began knocking her knuckles against the wood. On the lower panel, a hollow sound was let out. Her fingers caught a small seem, following it to a latch, hidden behind a chair.  
The latch had been painted over and took several tries to finally move it. When she did, Sherlock pulled back to reveal a hidden room in the wall.  
Joan couldn’t believe it. She had never known this room had existed!  
“Give me a light,” Sherlock ordered, kneeling farther into the small room. It gave off a heavy musty scent and dust blew out onto the floor. A breeze had come down a small crawlspace that led farther into the house.  
Joan pressed a torch in Sherlock’s hand and the woman turned it on. There was a shelf, lined with a few toys. A playing card lay on the ground, the ace of spades. Sherlock pulled out a heavy rabbit. Beneath the fur, lay a mechanism. She found the key and turned it. A low, haunting melody came out of the rabbit’s dusty body.  
“It’s a nursery song,” Sherlock said quietly, listening to it, “Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home….your house is on fire….your children are gone….all except one…”  
She looked up at Joan. “Lock the house.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for attempted rape.

Henry stayed with Sherlock while the others locked up the house.  
“Do you live alone?” he asked as she wired up the cameras.  
Sherlock shook her head. “No. I live with my older brother. He has a home in London.”  
“Are you married?” Again, she shook her head. “But don’t you have someone you love?”  
She sighed and looked up at him. “I did…It was a long time ago.”  
Henry tilted his head, his heavy brow furrowed in thought. “What happened to him?”  
“He died.” Sherlock bit her lip. “He died in the trenches, along with a lot of good men.”  
“At least he knew you loved him,” the young boy whispered.  
Sherlock felt her throat tighten. She decided to tell him what she had kept hidden for years. “No. He didn’t. I mean, I did love him but when the war started and he enlisted…I got scared. Before he left, I told him that I didn’t love him, that our relationship hadn’t mattered to me. He went to France and I went to university. I’ve regretted it ever since. I tried to send him a letter, telling him that I was sorry, that I truly did love him, that I even wanted to marry him when he returned but…He never did.” She looked down. “All I had of him after that was his cigarette case. A present I had given him. A present he had returned when I said those awful things.”  
And now, even that was gone.  
Henry walked over to her and wiped a tear that had fallen down her cheek. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “I think he would have known if he had loved you….I know I do.”  
Sherlock stared at him, her chest aching. This little boy was so much like her. He knew what loneliness was, he knew the safety of the dark and quiet. Such things no child deserved to know. It made you grow up cold and separated from everything you once cared about, until there was only emptiness.  
Sherlock sniffed. “Why…why don’t you go downstairs and get some cookies from Mrs. Hudson. Tell Joan to come up here in your stead. That’s a good lad.” She forced a smile for him and sent him on his way.  
Sherlock took a deep breath. His parents had made a mistake leaving him here in this dreary place.  
Standing up, she inspected her work. All the cameras were in place where she had followed the ghost earlier that day. When Joan came up, she would explain to her about the dollhouse and its significance. Perhaps that was the key to contacting this ghost.  
Behind her, she heard footsteps. “Joan, we need to—“ Turning around, Sherlock came face to face with a strange man.  
His hair was a fiery red, slicked back with pomade. He was an older gentleman, wearing clothes in fashion nearly twenty years ago. Sherlock saw in his hands a shotgun, his eyes burning with hatred as he stalked towards her.  
“Joan!” Sherlock cried, stepping back, keeping her eyes glued to the specter. Her feet tripped over the wires, the cameras flashing in her eyes as lost her balance and began to fall. She hit the ground with a heavy thud. Her ears rang with the sound of gunfire. “Joan!”  
A cool hand pressed against her cheek. Sherlock opened her eyes to see Joan kneeling beside her. Mrs. Hudson looked on worriedly from the end of the hallway.  
“Sherlock, are you hurt?” Joan examined her carefully.  
“I saw it!” she gasped, “I saw a man with a gun. He came right for me!” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with terror. Never before had she seen anything like that. It was no illusion. He was there, he was real! Her eyes moved to the cameras. “I have his picture.”

Joan stayed with Sherlock who denied both drink and food. Instead, she wanted to develop the film as fast as possible to prove that whatever she had seen was really there. Joan wondered if the woman had gone mad.  
Sherlock dipped the first photograph into the solution. “Now pull the cover up on the lamp, just for a second.”  
Joan obeyed, watching Sherlock’s determined gaze willing the photo into life.  
As the photo developed, they saw the far wall and Sherlock beginning her fall. The photo from the next camera documented her falling down further, showing more of the hallway before them. Still, there was no sign of anyone there. Photograph after photograph showed Sherlock in the hallway alone.  
“No,” she breathed, “That can’t be right. He was right there, not five feet from me!”  
Sherlock developed the last picture, showing her nearly on the ground and the open door to the spare attic room.  
“No! There was a man there,” she cried, “He was there with a shotgun. He looked like he wanted to murder me!”  
“Sherlock…”  
“No, Joan. I know what you’re going to say. I’m not mad. I’m not delusional either. I know what I saw.”  
Joan grabbed her arm. “No. Sherlock, look in the corner.”  
Sherlock frowned at her and looked back at the photo. The far corner of the hallway had fully developed finally. Behind Sherlock’s falling body, the figure of a boy stood in the corner. His face was completely blurred.  
She stared at the picture, afraid that the image would disappear. She felt like all the air had left her.  
“It’s the ghost,” Joan whispered, “It’s the same one from the school photographs. The one that had been in the window….Oh Sherlock…” It was incredible.  
There it was. Sherlock had finally found proof of a real spirit. There had been no mirrors there, no tricks to be had. The photograph was real. The boy was real.  
Sherlock let out a sob, quickly covering her mouth. She felt Joan wrap an arm around her. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Just let it out…”  
To Joan’s surprise, rather than cry or laugh with joy, Sherlock kissed her.  
Sherlock kissed her desperately, seeking out those soft lips and wrapping her arms around her body. She was too afraid to pull away, too afraid to be rejected right when her soul felt like it could be fly for the first time in years. It was just like the first time she had kissed Victor Trevor under the bridge, catching him unawares as they walked home from school.  
Joan did not disappoint. She returned the kiss generously, guiding Sherlock down to the sofa with every intent to make love to this incredible woman.  
Neither of them took notice as the curtain was pulled down by their bodies, the late afternoon light spilling into the room.  
The photograph of the young boy in the corner was destroyed. 

Joan had known for years that her passions lay with the same sex, even then, Martin had accepted her and taken her for a wife. He was kind, and brave, and together they formed a unique partnership. Joan had even come to love him through the years, following him to India to give aid to soldiers and villagers alike. Then, when the Great War began, Martin was transferred to Istanbul to keep the Turks in line. It was there that she lost the only man she loved, defending a British fort against insurgents. The wound in her leg would always remember that day.  
Joan had returned to her homeland a widow, taking a job as a nurse in the only house that would accept her. She had locked away her heart, knowing how rumor here could ruin her and put her out on the streets if she dared look at a woman with the same love she had had for her husband. Martin had protected her, even allowed for her to romance women back in the Orient and learn their Sapphic ways.  
Now Sherlock, this incredible woman with whom she never would have dared to touch, has kissed her. Joan showered her with love and pleasure, giving her the comfort she clearly needed at the moment when her mind and soul battled over the supernatural forces in this house. Their moans were muffled by kisses, their bodies pressing close as they reached their climax together.  
When they had finally pulled away, clothes rumpled and hair all astray, they smiled at each other. Neither said a word as they rearranged their clothes. Joan put her hair back up in a neat bun.  
Joan walked to the door. “You really need to rest. I’ll go get some tea.” She smirked, “If I haven’t worked up an appetite in you yet, I certainly will when I get back.”  
Sherlock laughed and laid back against the pillows. “I submit. Just hurry back, will you?”  
“I wouldn’t dare take my time coming back to you.” Joan shut the door and returned to the kitchen. She passed Mrs. Hudson in the dining hall, playing cards and murmuring to herself. The poor woman always did that when she was alone.  
Sherlock closed her eyes and relaxed. She felt like a great weight had been lifted from her very soul. There was a ghost in this house and they had seen proof of it. She didn’t even care at the moment about what she would do with the evidence. For now, she simply wanted to lay on this sofa and wait for Joan to return.  
Then the room began to grow cold. Something pressed up from the pillows and against her body. Sherlock cried out in surprise and turned to see a face and hands clawing up from inside the pillow, then fall back.  
She ripped at the fabric, shoving her hand inside its innards as if to pull the ghost out and make it face her! Her hand hit something metal and rectangular.  
Sherlock pulled it out from the feathers and found it to be Victor’s cigarette case.  
She covered her mouth in horror and ran from the room, straight out into the gardens and woods beyond. Why was it doing this? Why was it tormenting her this way!  
Sherlock stopped when her body could no longer run. Strength had left her long ago. She took deep, calming breaths, looking up at the trees above her.  
“A lady like you shouldn’t be out here alone.” Sebastian stood at the side of the path with an empty wheelbarrow and shovel in his hands.  
“I can be wherever I damn well please,” she said sharply, walking away from him.  
He chuckled. “Where do you get off acting like that?”  
“Acting like what?”  
“Like a man, like you’re as good as a man.” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “I saw what you and little Joany were doing back in the house. Saw you through the window. My, aren’t you two wicked girls…”  
Sherlock swallowed, glaring at him. “Not nearly as wicked as a pervert like you. I’m sure that wasn’t the first time you’ve peeked in through the window while a woman was unaware. Perhaps you even like to watch the little boys as well. Now get the hell out of my sight!”  
Sebastian’s expression darkened. “You better be careful of what you say to me, slut.”  
“Fuck. Off.”  
Sherlock had not expected him to move that fast. He grabbed her and started pulling her of the path and deeper into the woods. She screamed and struck out behind her. Sebastian grunted in pain as her foot made contact with his groin. He growled and threw her on the ground; his weight on top of her in seconds. He back handed her once and when that wouldn’t get her to stop fighting, he struck her with his full fist. The back of Sherlock’s head hit a rock and she went quiet, stunned.  
Sebastian licked his lips and breathed heavily as he looked over her limp body. He forced her shirt open, a dirty hand squeezing the soft breast beneath. Oh, he hadn’t needed Moriarty’s order to do something like this to her.  
Sherlock stirred beneath him as he began to unbuckle his belt. A twig snapped in the forest and he looked up, heart racing fast. No one could have heard her out here, and if they had…Sebastian hadn’t had a chance to finish that thought when a grotesque face appeared and screamed at him.  
He cried out in sheer terror, jumping back and looking around him. There was nothing. No one but him and the bitch he had on the ground. There was no time to play; he had to get rid of her now. Sebastian turned back, only to find the woman gone.  
A loud crack came from behind. Sebastian grunted and fell to the ground. Sherlock stood above him, blood running down her nose as she brought the shovel right down on his head again.


	6. Chapter 6

Joan returned to an empty room. When she saw the torn pillows and feathers strewn everywhere, she dropped the tray. “Sherlock!”   
She heard someone yelling and looked out the window. Sherlock was sprinting out the woods. Joan could see blood and dirt on her blouse. She raced out to meet her.  
“Oh god!” she breathed, “What happened?”  
Sherlock ran into her arms. “Sebastian. He tried to…he tried….I think I killed him.” Her breath was ragged and hoarse. Blood dripped from her nose and onto Joan’s dress.   
“Get inside,” Joan said quickly, “I’ll take care of Sebastian. Go straight to Mrs. Hudson and tell her to lock the door.”  
“Where is Henry? We have to make sure he’s safe as well.”   
Joan pulled back. “Who’s Henry?”  
“He’s one of the students. He stayed behind while the other boys left!”  
“Sherlock, there’s no Henry. It’s just you, me, and Mrs. Hudson!” And Sebastian—if the man wasn’t dead already. Joan ran off into the woods, following the trail of broken branches to find the body. She was going to make sure he was dead and that no one would find the body.  
Sherlock walked back to the house, feeling numb. Since coming to this place, Joan had never once acknowledged the presence of young Henry, even when he was in the same room. She had been the nurse here for three years. She knew every boy that has lived under this roof but there was no Henry with them now.  
Aside from her, the only person that could see him was Mrs. Hudson and she had been here since the beginning. Had she known Henry was a ghost all along? Her friend had been her tormentor.   
As soon as Sherlock stepped into the main hallway, she could sense a change. The walls seemed brighter now. She took a deep breath. It smelled of lavender perfume and the same cologne her brother had worn. He had said that their father had worn it as well.  
“You won’t even look at her!” a womanly voice cried, “She’s your own daughter for Christ’s sake!”   
Sherlock recognize them as the same voices that she had heard arguing before. Now, she could hear what they were saying as their voices drifted from the salon.  
“I don’t care! She’s a troublesome little brat! Henry makes for a finer child than her.”  
“How could you say that? How could you put your bastard child over your own daughter!? She loves you! She’s brilliant and kind and would make any father proud if he only cared to—Ah!” The woman cried out in pain.   
Sherlock opened the door, revealing the scene before her. A woman in Edwardian dress held her reddening cheek as a man with wild red hair walked to the bar for a drink. It was the same man from before. Sherlock could smell the alcohol as he passed her by.  
This was her father.  
“You want to live with your mistress and your bastard, Edward? Fine!” Sherlock’s mother glared at him, “But I’m leaving and I’m taking my children with me. I will not have Mycroft and Sherlock raised by an animal like you!”   
The walls were covered in animals. Lions, bears, fox skins, and stuffed turkeys; a whole menagerie decorated the room. A shotgun lay on display above the mantle of the fireplace. Edward went to the mantle as Sherlock’s mother spoke.  
Sherlock remembered what happened next. She turned around. Behind her was a small girl of seven with dark hair and pale blue eyes. Together, the woman and child watched as Edward grabbed the shot gun and aimed it at their mother.   
“Edward…Edward, what are you doing?” Her voice had turned fearful.  
“Goodbye, Violet,” he said quietly and pulled the trigger.   
Sherlock’s younger self screamed and ran to her mother’s side. Her white gown was quickly turning red.  
“Sh-Sherlock…run….”  
“Stand aside, darling. Daddy has to finish what he’s started.” His voice was cold and murderous. He raised his gun again and Sherlock barely stepped out of the way in time before he pulled the trigger again. This time, he shot his wife in the head.   
Sherlock ran out of the room, quickly opening a door in the wall and slipping inside.   
“Little Mouse, Little Mouse,” her father sang out, “You don’t think I know where all your hiding places are? Come out here right now and give your father a hug.”   
Sherlock climbed down under the floor boards, trying not to make a sound.  
Edward seemed to mentally track which way his daughter would have gone and put two shots into the floor.   
Sherlock screamed and scurried faster to the other side of the room, entering the passage under the far wall.   
“Mousey~…..Where are you?” Her father reloaded his gun.  
She had scurried down to the secret playroom. As she climbed back up, she came face to face with her half-brother, Henry. He put a silent finger to his lips, a deck of cards spread out before him. He had always been a quiet boy, so much quieter than Sherlock and her constant ramblings and questions. No wonder father loved him best.   
Sherlock covered her mouth to quiet her breathing. Her heart raced faster and faster as she heard her father’s footsteps coming down the hallway. Edward fired another shot into the wall, where Sherlock had just climbed up from the floor. This time, she didn’t dare make a sound. Maybe he would think he had finally killed her.  
“I’m not mad anymore, Sherlock,” her father called out, “I’m sorry about your mother, little mousey. She wasn’t a good woman…She didn’t know her place.”   
How could he say that about her mother? Her mother was strong and brilliant and beautiful! She had taught her how to read the stars and take care of a litter of hedgehogs they had found in the garden. She was the best of women. She was a scientist. How could her father not love her?   
Sherlock had only moved a little bit. She hadn’t seen the rabbit on the shelf by her shoulder. It fell down and began to sing a nursery rhyme. She gasped and looked up at her brother.  
“There you are…”  
The shot rang out, making her ears ring. Sherlock felt something wet and warm on her face and oozing out of her shoulder. They were only three little scratches. They were nothing compared to the blurred mess that had once been her brother’s head.  
The door to the secret room opened slowly, Henry’s body falling out.  
Sherlock could see through the broken door as her father stared in horror at his dead son. He had loved Henry just as much as she had. Sherlock watched as her father put the end of the shot gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger on last time. Blood and brain matter sprayed over the painting of a tiger stalking through the jungle.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stood in utter horror as her memories returned. She had forgotten it all. Her young, innocent mind had locked it all away so that she wouldn’t go mad. After that, Sherlock had spent several months in the hospital until Mycroft had come to collect her. They lived with an aunt for some time until Mycroft had come of age. He took Sherlock with him to London where she had grown up, unaware of her true past. He had let her believe a wild animal had killed her parents, not that monster that was her father.   
Sherlock turned around and found Henry sitting on the steps of the stairs.   
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” he said quietly, “Mother said that you had to remember on your own…”  
Mrs. Hudson had been her father’s mistress. She had stayed with her son the entire time, even when this place was turned into a school.  
“It’s alright, Henry. I’m not mad.” Sherlock looked down at him. For a second, she saw his face flicker. “You can control how you look?”  
Henry nodded. “Sometimes I can’t though. I hadn’t meant to scare Harold that night. I didn’t know he could see me. I always wanted a friend…”   
“It’s not your fault for what happened to Harold,” she said, “It’s not your fault for any of this. I’m so sorry, Henry.” Sherlock could feel the tears welling up. She couldn’t stop them even if she tried.   
Mrs. Hudson moved into the room and took her arm. “Let’s have a drink. You certainly need it, dear.” She smiled and brought her to the kitchen. 

Joan made sure that the grave was deep and well hidden as she buried Sebastian’s body. Sherlock had been right when she said she thought she killed him. It was only right that his dying expression was one of wide-eyed fear.   
She managed to make it back as darkness took the woods. Joan limped slightly as she entered the house. 

Mrs. Hudson poured them both a glass of sherry. “Drink up, love.” She drained her own glass while Sherlock took a sip.   
“All this time, I’ve never seen a real ghost,” Sherlock said, looking at Henry, “and to find that the first restless spirit I see is my own brother, in my own childhood home.” The world had a strange sense of irony.   
“But it’s alright now, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, “We can now all stay here together as a family and keep little Henry company.”  
Sherlock shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Henry, I will do whatever I can to help you move on, but I can’t live here.” This was no longer her home.  
Henry looked up at her, puzzled. Then he looked to his mother. “You said…you said she would be okay with this—that she would want to do this.”  
Sherlock furrowed her brow. She was about to ask what he had meant when a wave of dizziness came over her. “What…what have you done?”  
Mrs. Hudson seemed to be in a worse state than her. “It was so frightening,” she breathed, “When you….fell into the lake…..I couldn’t have you die just yet; not until you knew the truth…..Not until you knew where your place was.” She smiled. “It will be quick. Then we can be with Henry…forever….”   
Sherlock cried out for Joan as Mrs. Hudson fell dead to the floor. She hadn’t drunk as much. There was still a chance.   
Joan ran into the room. She saw Mrs. Hudson on the floor and Sherlock quickly joining her. “What did she do?”  
“Poison,” Sherlock said thickly, taking deep breaths, “Give me something…to make me sick…”  
The medicine cabinet was upstairs. Joan ran up to get to it. She had to hurry!  
“Mother locked up all the medicine,” Henry said quietly, kneeling next to Sherlock, “It will be okay. We’ll be together.”  
Sherlock looked up at him, tears running down her cheeks. “Henry…This isn’t where you belong. You deserve to be in heaven. Your mother was wrong in keeping you down here.”   
“But I don’t want to lose you again,” he said, crying with her.   
She felt so weak now. Coldness was making its way up her limbs and to her very core.   
Joan tried to open the door to the medicine cabinet, only to find it locked tight. “Dammit!” she cried, grabbing a shoe and trying to break the lock. Joan couldn’t lose Sherlock now.  
“You won’t lose me again,” Sherlock whispered weakly, “You will always be a part of me. You’ve helped me remember. I am so grateful for that….but you deserve to be at peace as well. Please, Henry. I don’t want to die now that I’ve found a reason to live again.”   
Joan finally smashed the lock and pulled it away. When she opened it up, she found it empty. There should have been a medicine bottle for purging. Where was it?   
Sherlock could no longer see, even though her eyes were open. She felt a bottle pressed against her lips and a bitter liquid pouring down her throat. Suddenly, her body convulsed and she became sick over the wooden floor.  
Henry let the bottle fall and gently rested his head against her chest. Sherlock stared up at nothingness.  
“I can feel you, Henry. I can feel you right here with me.”  
“Will we ever see each other again?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, “But not for a very long time. I’ll have so much more to tell you then. I’ll have so many adventures, just like we had promised each other. Then, when I’m old and grey, I’ll come see you again and we can travel the universe as angels. I promise.”  
Henry sniffed and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Sherlock.”  
“I love you too, Henry….”  
Sherlock felt a weight lifting from her chest and a bright light before her eyes. Then, there was nothing.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of this story but a new start for our favorite duo. Thank you for reading!

Sherlock walked the halls of her own home, now once again alive with the laughter of children. The fear and sadness that had once ruled over this place was gone. She watched the boys run around, giving energetic tours to their parents. They spoke of the ghost as if it had only been a figment of imagination.  
“It was such a tragedy,” she heard the Headmaster say; “The stress of it all must have brought it about ….No, there was no family to inform. She was alone. I have to say though, I’m glad Miss Holmes did not seem fit to join the Matron. Hopefully, with supervision and a family of her own to take care of, the young woman will not follow the Matron’s footsteps. You know, I once read a paper stating that the female mind couldn’t handle as much education as men…”  
Sherlock just rolled her eyes and headed for the front. When she saw Joan, she smiled.   
“Ready to go?” Joan asked.  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “The Headmaster speaks as if I’m halfway to the grave myself. I don’t think he had realized that I was right behind him the whole time.”   
“I never liked the old man, anyways. I’ll be glad to be gone.” She grazed Sherlock’s hand, just shy of holding it.   
“You’ll like living in London. There’s always something going on.” She smirked. “You can do with a bit of excitement. It gets the blood pumping.”  
Joan laughed. “Excitement? I thought you would be writing a new book by now…A Discovery of Ghosts perhaps?”  
“Actually, I’m more interested in this book.” Sherlock handed Joan a small red ledger. Joan examined the contents, but found it only to contain numbers.   
“What is this?” she asked.  
“A cipher. I found it in Professor Moriarty’s room. It looks like in his disgraceful retreat, he had forgotten it.” Sherlock looked at her. “Whatever he wanted to hide in that cipher, I can assure you, is nothing good.” When the local authorities had come to question her about Mrs. Hudson’s suicide and attempted murder, Sherlock had asked about the case with Moriarty. I appears that the man has disappeared.  
“You ought to give that to the police,” Joan said, frowning.  
Sherlock just grinned. “I do…after I finish decoding it. Besides, if the police need my help in uncovering fraudulent séances, they’ll need my help catching this criminal as well.”   
“Now that sounds dangerous.”  
“And exciting,” she replied, “I’m going to need a partner. Do you happen to have any experience with fire arms, Miss Watson?”  
“Why Miss Holmes, no lady in her right mind would know how to shoot a weapon.” Joan laughed. “So naturally, I do.”   
Together, Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson returned to London to start up a new life. They were done with catching ghosts. Now, it was time to catch criminals.


End file.
